


In Which There is a Row at Baskerville

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Actually I seriously doubt this will make any sense unless you've watched Baskerville, M/M, Pre-Slash, So you should probably watch it first, major spoilers for Baskerville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You didn't correct them."</p><p>"Mm?" I give the bed (my bed, Sherlock can take the one near the jittery A/C unit, not like he's going to sleep anyway) another bounce with my hand and glance up at the bathroom doorway. Sherlock's in there, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow and a bit of floss twined around his fingers.</p><p>"You didn't correct them," he says again, attacking his mouth with the floss. In a relenting moment, he adds, "The innkeepers."<br/>-----</p><p>John and Sherlock discuss the nature of their relationship.<br/>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which There is a Row at Baskerville

_John:_

"You didn't correct them."

"Mm?" I give the bed ( _my_ bed, Sherlock can take the one near the jittery A/C unit, not like he's going to sleep anyway) another bounce with my hand and glance up at the bathroom doorway. Sherlock's in there, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow and a bit of floss twined around his fingers.

"You didn't correct them," he says again, attacking his mouth with the floss. In a relenting moment, he adds, "The innkeepers."

Oh, God. "Sherlock-"

"You usually do," he says, turning to me and putting his hands on his hips. He's looking at me as though I've tampered with one of his experiments, like I've somehow skewed some of his data. God knows, I probably have. Grimacing, Sherlock goes on, "Whenever someone has implied a romantic link between us in the past, you've corrected them. So, what's different? The innkeepers are gay themselves; perhaps you don't wish to offend. Or," he runs his thumb along his bottom lip, looking absently at the plush burgundy rug beneath my feet, "it has something to do with The Woman." Suddenly, sharply, Sherlock looks up at me and meets my eyes, his bright and curious. "That comment about my cheekbones. Are we a couple, John?"

I know I'm spluttering, but I can't help it. When I finally manage actual words, they come out in a near jumble, "What? No, God, I, what, I don't, oh, Sherlock, I-"

"Just as well," Sherlock says, turning back to the mirror and inspecting his teeth with careful scrutiny. "The beds don't push together and I don't plan on sleeping tonight, anyway."

All I can do is blink at him for a moment before pulling out my mobile and texting Henry. On with the case; I can't and won't spare another thought towards whatever the hell is careening through Sherlock's head.

x

This afternoon he seemed to think we were lovers; now we aren't even friends. I really wish I could have had a go at that therapist. God knows I need it.

x

Night two at Dartmoor, and at least the bloody case is solved now. That was a weird one, and I'd love to give it a proper write-up on my blog. I know full well I can't, of course, because of the military involvement. Doesn't mean I don't want to.

"Mycroft will kill you," Sherlock says blandly, not even looking up from his book. He's draped over the second bed (the rickety air unit muffled by his enormous greatcoat), with his legs crossed at the ankles and his toes tapping.

I don't ask how he knew what I was thinking. Things are still…a little awkward. There was the drug, for one thing. And Sherlock's reaction to it. (My reaction to it was less aggravated, but I'm accustomed to fear. One of the various side effects of war, I suppose.) The mess with Henry (poor kid). The sorry affair with the dog. My nerves are still clanging around a little bit, and I can still hear Sherlock's voice-  _I don't have friends_ \- echoing in my head (along with its rejoinder:  _only one_ ).

"John."

I look up at Sherlock. He's set his book down over his chest and he's giving me that same look he gave me this morning, that hangdog look that settles so easily over his features. It would be better if I could tell myself he was doing his mollify-the-normal-person routine, but there's something so genuine about it (and the way he complimented me, parroting back the various compliments I've given him as though they're the only ones he knows) that I can't help but be taken by it. "Sherlock?"

"Are we a couple?"

I don't splutter this time. Sincerely, I say, "I don't know, Sherlock," and shrug. Because I don't. I don't know what we are anymore. That row we had last night…why did it feel like my whole world stopped making sense as soon as Sherlock failed to claim me as a friend? I came to the realization last night that maybe I'd invested too much in Sherlock, too quickly. My world has narrowed so much. I used to be a student, a doctor, a soldier, a brother, a friend, a lover. Now, I'm just Sherlock's. Sherlock's colleague. Sherlock's assistant. Sherlock's first-aid medic; Sherlock's medical consultant. Sherlock's sounding board. Sherlock's walking, talking skull.

Sherlock's only friend.

Without him, I'm just an invalid awash in a world of gray. "I don't know," I say again. Sherlock seems to consider this for a moment, before nodding once and picking up his book again. It's much later (I'm nearly asleep, right in the place where thoughts have started to wander into dreams) when he says, "I don't mind."

"Hmm?" I can't even open my eyes, I'm so tired. That mess with the hound. Henry's screams. God, I'm tired.

"I don't mind if we are," Sherlock insists, his tone suggesting that I should be following.

Sighing, I mumble, "Don't mind if we are  _what_ , Sherlock?"

There's another very long pause, and I find myself drifting very rapidly into sleep. Henry's therapist is on a date with a glowing rabbit, and I keep trying to butt in because I'm bored and I want the challenge. The girl's okay, but I'm mostly interested because of Sherlock…

"If we're a couple," I hear him say, somewhere on the edge of consciousness, "I don't mind."

"You and the rabbit?" I'm talking through a fog, the moor curled venomously around me. Sherlock's there, his hand in mine, and he sighs.

"Never mind. Go to sleep," he says, rolling his eyes. But I already am.


End file.
